Lost & Found
by PippaGee123
Summary: Started out as one-shots, then I got carried away. Little insights into the daily lives of the Consulting Detective and his Blogger. Maybe some angst and adventurey stuff poured in for good measure.
1. Sonata No 2: Allegro

Sonata No. 2: Allegro

'John?'

'Mm'

'I'm bored...'

'I know, you've been tapping your fingers for forty-five minutes...'

'Forty-seven actually.'

John didn't reply. Instead he pretended to be interested in the obituaries.

'John.'

'Sherlock.'

'Fancy a game of _Cluedo?_'

'Piss off.'

'Come on, I won't _bend _the rules this time.'

'No thank you, Mr Holmes.'

'Please.'

'No. The day you stick to the rules of a board game will be the same day that Mycroft admits that he occupies considerably more than a minor role in the British Government.

John folded his newspaper in half, slapping it down on the arm of his overworked armchair as he stood up. He did this wiith enough force to hint his annoyance, naturally.

'I can't get a minutes peace with you, can I?' The Doctor asked, scratching his forehead.

'And yet here you are.'

'I haven't got a bloody clue why. You're an annoying bugger you know.'

Sherlock shrugged carelessly, jumping up off his armchair and pacing over to the window. His violin was set down carefully. Gently, he slid his finger up each of the strings, longing to pick it up and play Bach or the like.

'Go ahead.' John muttered, reading Sherlock's ever-full mind.

The detective positioned the violin comfortably under his chin and began to play Bach's _Sonata No.2- Allegro. _

John sat back down in his armchair, not bothering to pick up his crinkled paper. Instead he crossed his hands across his stomach and watched.


	2. Unfamiliar War

Author's note: Thank you for my first review of the story! More coming up!

Unfamiliar war

Bullet. Bullet. Sand. Heat. Overwhelming heat. Searing. Burning. Pricking. Screaming. Crying.

John was lying in the midst of a battlefield. An unfamiliar battlefield. Bullets were flying. The sky was thick with heavy, black smoke. He willed himself to move, to get up. He was fixed. A permanent fixture in the blood and fire of the battle. People were shouting- shouting his name. Screaming for his help. He couldn't. He couldn't. People were dying. All around him, he was lying in a pool of someone's blood. It wasn't his own. Bullets were coming toward him but bouncing off. They were hitting other people, people who they weren't meant to be hitting. He couldn't help them. He couldn't.

#####

John writhed, twisting and contorting his aching, sweaty body. His bed sheets were on the floor, the pillows soaked and sticky. The dream had occupied every space in his mind, squashing sense and reason. This was a dream. This wasn't a dream. This felt real. His body was reacting in pure, agonizing terror. Thrashing, turning. Cries escaped his dry mouth. Fear seeped through every pore. This was a dream. This wasn't a dream. His eyes wouldn't open. His brain wouldn't switch off. This wasn't a dream.

#####

This couldn't be real. John closed his eyes to the battlefield. Tried to drown out the sounds of the grenades and the bullets and the screaming and the death. 'Wake up John. Wake up John. _Wake._..'

#####

'_...Up John. Wake up. Come on, John. Wake up.'  
_John's eyes flicked open. He panted heavily. When his eyes adjusted to the light he looked around.; there was no battlefield, no sand, no blood or death. There were no cries of fear, no bullets firing, no explosions. There was just silence. There were no fallen comrades, bloodied, innocent bodies; there was only Sherlock, perched delicately on the edge of the John's bed, hands placing the cool, dry quilt over the shaking body of the Soldier.

'_Sssh, John. It was just a dream. Just a dream.' _


	3. Jam on Burnt Toast

Jam on burnt toast

John was woken by the shrill cry of the fire alarm. It startled him at first- he wasn't feeling great after his dream. He threw back his quilt and slid out of bed as quickly as was possible for an extremely tired man.

_If I go down there to find Sherlock's frying a... brain or something... God. _

As John padded down the stairs a thin veil of smoke made him cough a little.  
'Sherlock... What are you-'

'-I made you toast, John!' Sherlock interrupted, looking pleased with himself. He knew John had had a tough night, his nightmares were a bit not good. 'Although there's rather a lot of carbon on the top, I must admit. I've covered it up with Mrs Hudson's homemade strawberry jam. Here.' He thrust a _Queen's Jubilee _plate with the cremated toast into John's hand and walked back into the kitchen. John sat down on the edge of the sofa, watching Sherlock pull a severed limb out of the fridge. He took a bite out of the toast, almost broke his tooth and then began to laugh.

'You're a bloody _genius _and yet you can't even make toast? Did you use the toaster?' John asked between childish giggles.  
'We have a toaster?'

_Take that as a no then. _

_##### _

'Thank you _very _much for the Jam, Mrs Hudson, it really was a delight.'

'Oh that's quite alright Sherlock, dear! I have enough free time on my hands to make a whole vat!'

'Yes, quite. Well, we best be off. Come along, John!'

The door to 221B swung open and closed within seconds and The Detective and The Blogger stepped out into the brisk autumn air, scarves, coats and all.

'Sherlock?' John spoke his friend's name quietly as they slid into a cab.  
'I wonder what _delight _Lestrade has in store for us today. I _do_ hope it's a serial killer, you know how I feel about those'  
'Sherlock.' John repeated, raising his voice against the hum of the car.

'What? Oh, yes?' Sherlock turned, fixing his gunmetal eyes on his friend.

'Thank you.'

'Well, it was the least I could do. I apologise for..._overcooking_ it.'

'I'm not thanking you for the toast.'


	4. Tangerine Jumper

**Author's note: If anyone has any prompts/requests or whatever **_**(I think I want them to realise they feel more than just friendship soon haha**_**), leave me a review or a PM, I will try my best! **

Tangerine Jumper

When Sherlock stepped over the threshold of 221B he thought he was going to be blinded.

'What the hell is that?' He asked John, pointing to what appeared to be a tangerine skin fashioned into a jumper.

'This?' John replied defensively, using both fingers to point to his new item of clothing. 'This, Sherlock, is a jumper. Harry bought it for me.'

'It's hideous.' Sherlock stated matter-of-factly, depositing a bag of eyeballs acquired from St. Bart's on the kitchen table.

'No no no, Sherlock. I don't think so. I don't want any... _body parts _anywhere near where I eat.'

Sherlock sighed with boredom. 'Good job I didn't bring back what I was originally planning on then.'

'Which was?' John asked, raising an eyebrow. 'Wait, actually, I don't want to know.'

'Probably wise.' Sherlock smirked, deftly pulling off his scarf.

'Anyway Trinny or Susanna, what's wrong with this jumper?' John enquired, getting up from the sofa and heading for the kettle.

'It's ghastly. That colour. Good Lord, John. I usually like your jumpers but this...' he made a grand gesture in the jumper's general direction to punctuate his point, 'this is awful.'

'It's not that bad! It's just a little-' The orange-clad man stopped mid-sentence, frowning slightly, 'did you just say you liked my jumpers?'

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. _Unintended compliments. Not your usual style, Sherlock. You need to watch yourself.  
_'I was just- you know, they're...' he paused, his immense mind scouring for the appropriate word. 'Homely. Yes: homely.'  
John checked the kettle for body parts and then flicked the switch, leaning on the work surface. 'Homely? I can deal with that.'

'Ok, good. Chinese for Dinner?'

'Yep.'

#####

Sherlock watched interestedly as John polished off his chicken chow mein, hardly touching his own dish of noodles.

'Why do you enjoy eating so much? Why is it more than just necessity?' Sherlock asked, eyeing the ever-decreasing bag of prawn crackers.

'I dunno. It's normal.' John replied, mouth full of chicken. 'You're just weird.'

Sherlock feigned offence. 'I am not weird, John Watson!'

'You are a bit. You don't sleep, you don't eat, you hardly even stop for breath.' The doctor wiped his mouth with a serviette. 'I guess that's just how your mind works. The demands of the body are just inconvenient necessity.'

'Quite.' Sherlock agreed, smiling at John's understanding. 'Why sleep, John, when you can work a case? Why eat when you can sprint the streets of London -' his phone beeped, 'or annoy Mycroft, as he's about to annoy me...'

**1 New Message: Mycroft-  
I need you. Bring John – M.**

Sherlock's finger tapped a haughty reply:

**Reply to: Mycroft- I'm afraid you're not selling it, brother dear. Try again – S**

The phone beeped again, Sherlock rolled his eyes.

**1 New Message: Mycroft- **

**There's no room for debate. There's a car outside: Get in it - M**

The younger Holmes sighed, 'John, cover up that jumper. We're needed.'


	5. Almost Central Park

**Author's note: Thank you to those who've read and reviewed! I'm glad people are enjoying it! To clear things up, the chapters are in chronological order unless otherwise stated.**

Almost Central Park

Sherlock stood at the window, pale forehead pressed against the cool glass. He watched a young child being walked across the road, wrapped up tightly in coat, hat and scarf. _Nine. Public school. Divorced parents. Scared of dad. Mom at home. That's his Nanny. Heading to park._

'John.' The detective barked spontaneously, making John jump and spill his tea down his best grey jumper.

'Damn it, Sherlock. What do you want?' he spat, setting his tea down on the table and huffing into the kitchen.

'Let's go to the park, John.' Sherlock answered, making his way to where his coat and scarf were hung with a subtle strut.

His companion stood still in the kitchen, his face masked with gentle confusion.

'The park, right. Of course you do.'

'Something wrong?' The dark-haired man enquired, turning to face John in the process of pulling on his coat.

'Nope. The park, right. Let's go.'

#####

Sherlock stood next to the gate of the children's playing area, watching with unfamiliar nostalgia as children whooped and laughed, taking kamikaze dives from the top of the ten foot slide.

'Feeling nostalgic?' John asked, reading Sherlock's mind.

'Mycroft used to bring me here, after school. It was about the only thing I looked forward to. Of course it all stopped when he got a little older. I believe he considered me to _'cramp his style.' _The younger Holmes brother spat those last words in bitter mockery, piercing them with a sort of venom.

'It's only to be expected, Sherlock. You're not the only person who was discarded by their older sibling as they grew up. It happens to everyone, Sherlock.'

'You don't understand, John, you never understand.' The man replied with a sardonic smile.

'Mycroft and I did not have a _normal _childhood. We were my mother's showpieces. We weren't treated as children should be, unless my parents were with company. We were wrapped in bubble-wrap and kept away from anything that could damage us and in my mother's eyes that was everything.'

'Why are you telling me this, Sherlock?'

'Because you listen.'

#####

'No, Sherlock, don't throw the whole slice in! Break it up small and _then _throw it.'

'I'm trying to avoid the swans.'

'Yeah I know, arrogant bastards aren't they?' John replied between throws.

'I feel a little ridiculous, John, I must admit.'

'Yeah, you look it too, but it hardly seems fair that you should miss the wonders of the duck pond.'

'It's rather anti-climatic, isn't it?'

'Well what did you expect? Them to start a parade to thank you?'

And with that, Sherlock threw a piece of broken bread at John's face.

#####

The Detective and the Doctor meandered around the park in companionable silence, except for those moments when Sherlock felt obliged to comment on tree types or the breakdown of minerals in the soil.

'This is the closest I'll ever get to Central Park.' John contemplated, zipping up his jacket.

'Yes, It's your a_lmost Central Park'_

After talking to John earlier he felt something move; a change in the dynamic of their friendship. The Great Detective couldn't figure out what it was, but he wasn't worried. Instead, he watched John. The wiggling of his fingers to warm them up; the way he occasionally smiled at something he saw – a gentle, crooked smile; his greyish-blue eyes taking in the beauty of the park. Right there, in the middle of London, a city that never stays still, that never sleeps. A city that holds a million stories, a million different actions and their opposites- right there was a place that has slowed down, that doesn't keep moving. A place that didn't hold a million stories and their opposites. Sherlock realised that that is what John is to him. He is London, and John is his park.


	6. One does not say no to a Holmes

**Author's note: If you're reading the fic and have time, leave me a review. It'd be nice to have **_**even more **_**response from you lovely readers. I like nice comments but I also love constructive criticism and ideas, so go wild!**

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One does not say no to a Holmes 

'... those Jam tarts were quite lovely, John. Did Mrs Hudson make the jam herself? Send her my compliments. Anyway, on to the matter in hand. Brother dear, would you be kind enough to read through this file. I think you'll find it to be of significant... importance.' The elder Holmes brother was sitting at his mahogany desk, resting his elbows upon the wood, fingers steepled. He was watching his younger intently. _He's not interested. He won't ever be. This doesn't even warrant leaving the house. He will do it though, one does not say no to a Holmes, even another Holmes._

Sherlock sighed as he finished reading, handing the brown file over to John.

'_This_' Mycroft started, gesturing to the file, 'is new intelligence. I appreciate you won't find it interesting, Sherlock, but needs must.'

Sherlock grunted indifferently, leaning back in his chair.

'Mycroft, I understand that you consider this to be 'a threat,' but don't you have any 'Secret' Service employees who would be better suited?'

'Yes.' Mycroft didn't elaborate.

'But you want this done quickly, and that's why you asked Sherlock?' John offered, setting the file down on the intricately carved desk.

'Exactly.' Mycroft paused. 'You know what I need you to do.'

'John, leave. I need some alone time with my dearest older Brother.' Sherlock smiled, cocking his head towards the huge oak door. 'Thank you.'

When the doctor had left, Sherlock turned on his brother, malice glinting in his gun-metal eyes. 'How dare you.' He spat, sliding the brown file into Mycroft's lap.

'I'm afraid I don't quite know what you're talking about, Sherly.' Mycroft replied coolly, raising one recently plucked eyebrow.

'You want to send John out as cannon fodder. Push him into the arms of this, _Vikram_ fellow. Someone who is quite happy to blow up half of London if his buttons are pressed.'

'I trust John, Sherlock.'

'But I don't trust you.' The younger Holmes replied bluntly.

'That is immaterial. I am fully aware that this is not as interesting as one of your Scotland Yard cases but it doesn't make it of lesser importance. This man will blow up half of London if he thinks for one minute that he won't be getting the chemical weapon he's paid for.'

'Which he won't be. Because you've apprehended it.'

'You follow, excellent.'

'Of course I follow, it's not exactly difficult to see where you've messed up.'

Mycroft pursed his lips, refusing to be reduced to petty brotherly arguments.

'John, please come back in. There's something I need you to do.'

#####

'I cannot believe you agreed to do that.' Sherlock fumed, pacing round the flat, fingers pressed to his temples.

'He asked.' John countered, assuming a defensive stance against Sherlock.

'And if Mycroft asked you to throw yourself in front of a speeding train, would you?'

'Depends what for.'

'Oh don't try and act the patriot, John. You've done your bit for this country. Mycroft's appealing to your loyalty.'

'Yes.'

'You'll get yourself killed!'

'Funnily enough I'm not scared of that, Sherlock.'

'I am.'

'Excuse me?'

'I'm afraid of you getting yourself killed, John.'

The Doctor faced the Detective, his mouth agape.

'I need you, John. More than you know.' Sherlock took a step towards John, beginning to close the distance between them. 'You saved me from myself; you stopped me from losing my mind completely. You are my dose of normality, John, and I cannot be without that. I cannot be without you.'

The two men stood facing each other for a moment, thoughts spinning in each of their heads.

'And you think I don't need you?' The smaller of the two men broke the silence. The taller didn't respond. 'You do, don't you? You think that you're just a mate, someone who pays half the bills and takes me out on a lead when something fun happens. That's not it. That's not what you are. From the moment I met you, with your bloody '_The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street wink, wink' _bit, you have annoyed me half to death. You have put me back into situations where I am genuinely concerned about the ending of my life. But _you _saved _me _from _myself, _Sherlock. You're the reason I can walk normally, for God's sake.' John paused, taking a breath, eyeing his counterpart with a burning affection. 'Don't you dare think that I can be without you.'

Sherlock looked at back John, his own grey eyes glinting with something the latter had never seen before. He seemed to believe it was the same thing that was making his own stomach clench.

The two men said nothing. Very loudly. Silence filled the room, so thick with meaning it could be cut with a knife. John took a step toward Sherlock, a final, distance closing step. He reached out a warm but calloused hand to the other man's pale, perfectly carved face and pulled him into him. He brushed his lips against Sherlock's. Sherlock let him. His senses dulled and he kissed John back, a kiss that spoke so many words that the two of them couldn't bring themselves to say. It was slow, gentle - a shared gesture which said exactly what the two of them wanted: that they could only survive if they could have each other.


	7. 221B Baker Street, literally

**A/N: Sorry for the lack of updates, college work keeps me busy! Apologies that this chapter is short... Enjoy! **

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221B Baker Street, literally.

John had decided he wanted to bake. He'd printed out a recipe, popped down to the shop, and got back to the flat to find that Sherlock had taken over the kitchen.

'What're you doing?' John enquired nervously, carefully avoiding the spilled chemicals and broken glass on the floor by the table.

'An experiment.'

'Sherlock, I was going to bake.'

'You were going to bake?' Sherlock asked, looking up from his work with a raised eyebrow.

'Yes, I was going to bake.'

'You were a soldier, John.'

'Yes. That doesn't mean I can't bake.'

'You never bake.'

'Again, yes. That doesn't mean I can't. Shift your... eyeballs or whatever and let me get started.'

Sherlock sighed dramatically, making an obvious effort to show John how much he didn't want to 'shift his eyeballs'. _They weren't even eyeballs. They were fingers. Big difference. _

John rested his hands on the table, bending down slightly. He gave him a look - a pleading look.

'Sherlock.'

'Fine! Fine! You better wipe the table down before you start rolling pastry or the like. Nobody wants to find a finger in their apple pie. I'm off to Bart's. Laters.' Sherlock haughtily swept his equipment into a large plastic box and headed for the door.

John signed and dumped his bag of ingredients on the worktop, muttering incoherent curses to Sherlock under his breath. Then man hadn't been out of the door ten seconds when John heard him running back up the stairs two at a time.

'Forgot something.' He panted lightly. John didn't have time to look puzzled before the dark haired man pressed his lips to his, wrapping his arms around the baker's waist, pulling him toward him tightly.

'Don't make apple pie, John. I don't like apple pie.' And with that, Sherlock swept out of the flat and the door slammed behind him.

John made apple pie.

#####

'You made apple pie. Why did you make apple pie?' Sherlock inquired disgustingly, pushing some stewed apple around on his dish.

'Oh eat your custard.' John retorted, shovelling a piece of pastry into his mouth. 'Mrs Hudson likes it. And Mycroft.'

'Yes well he would- wait, Mycroft? When did you see Mycroft?' The detective asked, resting his chin on his interlocked fingers.

'He popped in this morning, while you were out. Asked me if I still wanted to –'

'Act as cannon fodder? Yes, carry on.'

'_Thank you_.' John rolled his eyes, picking up Sherlock's plate and setting it on top of his own. 'Anyway, he explained what he wanted me to do, and I agreed.'

'Which _was?'_

'You know what it was, Sherlock.'

'I have an idea, but I don't exactly what he said, do I? Explain.'

John cut himself another slice of pie. 'I'm to meet with this, _Vikram _guy, so Mycroft's people can get hold of him. Simple.'

'And you think that he's going to believe for one minute that you're the arms dealer he's been conferring with?'

'Yes actually, I do.'

'He will kill you.'

'Not necess-'

'Yes. He will kill you.'

'I-'

'-he will kill me, too.'

John put his plate on the countertop without taking his eyes off Sherlock. 'It will be fine, Sherlock. Mycroft knows what he's doing, _I _know what I'm doing.'

'Yes, but his men don't'

'Sherlock, trust me. I'm not worried, you shouldn't be either.'

'I don't want to lose you, John.'

'I don't want to lose you, either. And I won't.'


	8. As You Like It

**A/N: Thank you to those who have followed/favourite my story – I can't believe people are actually still reading my work! It's exciting.**

* * *

As You Like It

John waited for the call, for the code word: 'Shadow' He was waiting at the arranged meeting place, nose, ears and fingers being nipped by the bitter autumn cold.

'Hurry up, hurry up.' He muttered through gritted teeth, pulling his jacket sleeves over his hands like a nervous child.

The phone buzzed. John flinched.

'Shit. Yes?'

'John Watson?'

'Mmhm.'

'Shadow.'

The line disconnected immediately. John pulled off the back of the phone, pulling out the battery and sim card, tossing them into the bin. He pushed the plastic back onto the phone and slid it into his empty pocket.

The Doctor cum operative began to walk with pace towards Battersea Park. He wondered whether he looked suspicious to other people, the way that spies and spooks always looked to him in TV shows. He figured not. He watched as people continued with their daily lives: washing their cars, walking their dogs; watching the perpetual flowing of the Thames. These people were completely unaware of what he was about to do, unaware that if this man cocked things up, they could be dead; their families could be dead. John felt prickles of heat climbing up his back. He wished Sherlock was there. He was the anti John: attention span of a fly and the demeanour of one: irritating and unable to remain in one place, yet he calmed him. He knew he needed him, even just a glimpse of that pale, angular face.

#####

Sherlock was under strict house arrest: Mycroft had ordered him to remain in Baker Street, sipping tea and listening to the irritating buzz of the 'married ones next door's' television. He couldn't sit still. He was aware that was hardly unusual but this time he felt different. He felt _ill_. It was two in the afternoon and he was still clad in his silk bathrobe and pyjamas.

The detective positioned his long, thin body on the edge of the sofa, delicate fingers steepled, angular chin resting on bony thumbs. He tried to stop his mind, to stick one of his feet on the ground as the round-about spun round sickeningly; dragging his feet on the ground whilst riding a bike instead of using the brakes. It was useless, it hurt him more. He focused his attention on the wall directly in front of him. He followed the wallpaper motif with his eyes, absorbing every angle, every gradient. _Where is John? Where is my John?_

'Oooh-ooh!' Sherlock was yanked out his reverie by Mrs Hudson's usual greeting.

'Would you like another cuppa, Sherlock dear?' She asked gently, setting down another box of PG Tips and some Jaffa Cakes.

'Mrs Hudson, answer me a question: does tea have some magical power that I am unaware of?' He stood up, dramatically pulling the silk of his robe around his thin body.

'Well, no, I don't supp-'

'Then why, Mrs Hudson, do you insist on pouring it down my throat every time there's a crisis?' he spat, gliding out of the room in a whirl of blue silk.

'That man.' Mrs Hudson shook her head, muttering to the Jaffa Cakes.

Sherlock threw himself onto his bed, fingers pressing into his temples. His head felt dizzy, his mind whirring silently out of control. It didn't put up a fight, it had no defence mechanism. Sherlock sat in his daydream, unmoving and unblinking as his mind tore itself apart. There was nothing he could do except bare the overwhelming, sickening pain that his thoughts were putting him through. Not knowing was killing him. _What is it they say? No news is good news? Bullshit. No news was dead. _He needed John with him now. This was barely anything compared to what they usually went through together but this time John was alone, his John, alone, facing the bastards who threaten the lives of innocent people, the life of _his_ John.

John was good, oh yes John was good.

_All the world's a stage; _

But how far did his talents stretch?

_And all the men and women merely players;_

These people knew what they were doing, their threat is real.

_They have their exits and their entrances;_

John was just a player in this whole drama.

_And one man in his time plays many parts;_

He was just an understudy, brought in at the last minute because the big boys can't play.

_His acts being in seven ages..._

#####

**New Message: Blocked Number- **

**Visual on the snake. Hawk is in position. Proceed with caution. **

'Mr Asan?' A gentlemen in a black coat whirled around, a cigarette perched dangerously between his thin lips. 'Ivan Dorin, I'm Mr Petrovik's handler.' John held out his hand and gave a steady, firm handshake. He did not take his eyes from the man he was facing. He did not blink.

The other man frowned, taking a puff of his cigarette before flicking it onto the ground.

'Mr Dorin, you will forgive me. I was led to believe that I would be meeting with Alexander Petrovik himself.'

'Yes. That was the original plan, Mr Asan, but Mr Petrovik is, shall we say, indisposed.'

'You mean he is dead?'

'Ah, Mr Asan. I'm not at liberty to divulge that information. However I have been well informed about your plans.'

'I see.' Mr Asan eyed Ivan Dorin incredulously. John's mouth went dry.

'And Mr Petrovik would consider it too be a, eh-' Asan brought his hand to his chin, fingers gently stroking his beard. '...worthy cause?'

John faultered. He noticed Asan had made a gesture with his forefinger. A gesture that remarkably mimicked the pulling of a trigger. He couldn't move quickly enough. He was on the floor before he even felt the sharp bite of the bullet pierce the skin of his right shoulder, working its way through his body and back out the other side. The Doctor's breath came in short, sharp pants, he was incapable of moving his left hand to assess the damage. He was stuck, warm, sticky bloody pooling around him; breathing slowing down, eyelids becoming heavy. The man felt his senses dull, distant traffic sounds and the screaming of sirens becoming muffled. He could feel the weight of every breath. _This is it. _His eyes closed against the blur of his surroundings. _This is finally it. _His breath caught with every intake of air. _Sherlock, I need you, please, Sherlock. _The pain left his shoulder. _Sherlock. _Consciousness seeped from his body, replaced by a sticky, liquid warmth moving through his veins to his heart.

_#####_

_...Last scene of all, that ends this strange eventful history, is second childishness and mere oblivion, sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything._

Sherlock's eyes flicked open. _'Sherlock'_

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**Italic parts from 'All the World's...' to '...sans everything' are from Shakespeare's As You Like It, in case anybody didn't recognise it. Definitely not my work hehe! **


	9. The Holmes Advantage

**A/N: Thank you for continuing to read, it makes me very very very happy! Maybe I should find myself a beta reader soon... hm. Enjoy (or have feels, whatever (; )**

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The Holmes Advantage

_Sans everything..._  
'John.' Sherlock's mind broke free from its reverie, its entangling vines slinking back into the shadows.  
He pulled his phone out of the pocket of his robe. Two rings.  
'Yes?'  
'Mycroft. John. Where is he? Where is John?'  
'Sherlock please, I told you not get involved.'  
'Something is wrong, Mycroft. Listen to me.'  
'There is nothing to worry about, Sherlock. Now leave it.'  
The youngest Holmes threw his phone onto the floor, anger at his brother temporarily threatening to outweigh his worry for John. Either Mycroft was stupid or he was trying to protect him. Sherlock struggled to believe the first.  
He bent down and retrieved his phone. No damage. Good. Four rings.  
'Hello?'  
'Molly.'  
'Oh, Sherlock, um hi. How are- how are you?'  
'I haven't called for a social chat, Molly, I need your help.'  
'Mmhm'  
'I need you to check the A and E admissions. For John.'  
'For John? Sherlock?'  
'Please, Molly. Just do it.'  
'Give me five minutes, I'll call you back.'

04:49:52

One ring.  
'Molly?'  
'He's not here, Sherlock -'  
Disconnected.

#####

In his fading consciousness John could feel himself being manhandled. Rough hands gripping his arms, pain searing through his shoulder as he felt himself leave the ground and be thrown down onto cold metal.  
Heavy doors slammed shut, he felt his surroundings darken.  
_Shit._  
'Take him. Don't let his little boyfriend find out.'

#####

'Open this damn door Mycroft Holmes! Now!'  
'For goodness' sake, Sherlock. Would you just calm down?'  
'Something is not right Mycroft, and I'm sorry if my fear for John's life is an inconvenience but I'm afraid to say it is unavoidable. Open the door.'  
'Sherlock -'  
'I can sense it, Mycroft. There's something not quite right. Get a status report.'  
'Fine.' Mycroft spoke to somebody obviously behind an earpiece. 'Alpha one, status report on Alpha two, repeat, status report on Alpha two.'  
A pause. A dropped expression.  
'Copy that, Alpha one.' Pause. 'Agent down.'

#####

John didn't know what woke him, the sound of foreign tongue or the searing pain in his left shoulder. 'Shitting shit shit. That hurts. _Shit_.'  
'Mr Watson. I would appreciate you not using profanities under my roof.' Mr Asan said quietly, dusting off his lapel.  
'It's _Doctor_ fucking Watson, thank you.'  
A punch to the mouth. Warm blood. The taste of iron.  
'My doctor will see to you now. We will build you up and then wear you down, Mr Watson.'  
_What the hell did that mean?_ John couldn't remember anything. He thought that he'd been thrown into a van, the slamming of the metal back doors sounded in his head. Sherlock was right. He wouldn't believe for one second that I was who I said I was. I'm good. He's better.  
John had lost too much blood.  
Blackout.

#####

'I have made a grave mistake, Sherlock. You were right. John was not up to this.' Mycroft Holmes sat on his huge leather chair, back to his brother, facing London through a pane of glass. His copper hair was catching the soft light of the office. It made him look young, angelic. He didn't feel it.  
'Yes. You have. Find him, Mycroft.' Sherlock stroked the leather of his seat gently, swirling a tumbler of scotch in his right hand. 'Is this drink supposed to help? It tastes like acid.'  
'MI5 informed me that they saw him being taken into a black van. From the visuals he looked unconscious, bloody. No registration number. We're using traffic cameras and satellites. We're trying.'  
'Try harder.' Sherlock set the tumbler down onto Mycroft's desk calmly, getting up from his seat. When he left he did not slam the door. Instead he pulled it shut and leant his back against it. He thought he may have cried. Only a little. Caring isn't an advantage.

#####

John's face was bloody and bruised, his shoulder ached unbearably. He couldn't move from the chair placed in the middle of a concrete room. _Find me, Sherlock. I need you._  
'This is just a taster, Mr Watson, of what you will get if you do not co-operate.'  
'Mr Asan, what do you want with me?'

'Tell me everything you know about James Moriarty.'


	10. Cliché Hero

'Excuse me?'

'Don't play games, Mr Watson. I know you know Mr Moriarty.'

'I don't know him. He's tried to kill people I care about a few times, but I don't know him.'

The sharp smack of hand on cheek.

'Tell me.'

'I don't know anything about him except these he's A) A psychopath and B) A psychopath. He forced my friend to fake his own death, blew up an old woman and is a psychopath.'

'You work with him, no?'

'What? NO. What the hell do you want with him?'

John's shoulder was aching dully, never getting worse but never ceasing. He tried to adjust his position. No such luck.

'Why should I tell you?'

'He's obviously been a naughty boy. What did he do?'

'He.. he, killed somebody close to me, somebody I cared about.'

'He's killed a lot of people who are cared about. Not all of them torture people for information.'

'He goes unnoticed. He is a snake.'

'Wrong. He's a spider.'

#####

'Any news?' Sherlock swept into Mycroft's office with a take-away coffee.

'Nothing as of yet. I'm expecting a report soon.'

'Are your men completely insolent?'

'They're not my men.'

Sherlock scowled, pulling the lid from his cardboard cup. 'Ugh, Kenco.' Mycroft smiled wryly, running his fingers across the edge of his desk.

Three rings.

'Holmes.' Mycroft nodded. 'Mmmhm. Mmm. Mmhm. Right. Where? Okay. Thank you.'

Sherlock looked up from his coffee. 'Who was that?'

'MI5. They've traced the van using traffic cameras. It headed north, Fifty Five Ryeman Park. A disused industrial estate. Ghastly place. They're sending their men. I'll call for a car.'

#####

John felt sick. He needed to go to hospital, the 'doctor' who'd fixed him up had done a slack job, he could tell. His body ached, he was covered in blood and he was_ so_ tired.

'Moriarty is dead. He killed himself. Put a gun in his mouth and boom. Bye bye birdy.'

'Don't lie to me.' Asan snarled, sliding his hand into his jacket pocket, pulling out a small knife with a long, thin blade. John closed his eyes as he felt the smooth coldness of the blade teasing at his neck.

_Sherlock. _

He kept his eyes shut. Tight shut. His breathing was coming in quick bursts, his heart almsot beating out of his chest. He heard movement. He prepared for the worst, for the blade to trace a delicate line across his throat. For the white-hot pain that would follow. Instead, there was nothing. He daren't open his eyes. He took a breath, sent a silent message to Sherlock and then exhaled slowly.

He didn' even open his eyes when a gunshot reverberated heavily around the round. He didn't feel any pain, it couldn't have been meant for him. But there was only Mr Asan in the room. He opened his eyes.

Mycroft Holmes was standing in the doorway, c_liché hero style, _about six MI5 agents behind him.

John looked at Mr Asan, he wasn't dead, but he would be soon.

'Let's get you to a hospital, Doctor Watson.'


	11. Navy Jumper

**A/N: Hello, readers! If you're enjoying my story, share it! I'd love to get the word out about it, and it's better coming from people who enjoy it rather than the writer herself! Thank you to everyone is reading/has read _any _parts of my story, I really appreciate it! :D**

Navy Jumper

Sherlock didn't take his eyes off of John. Not for anything. He watched the rise and fall of his chest, his small, sleeping movements. It told him he was alive. That he was going to be okay. It was three in the morning, but Sherlock wasn't tired. He couldn't stop thinking about what _could've _happened. He knew that it wasn't particularly difficult to find John, but he also knew how it could've been too late. The thing that scared him the most, that made his stomach clench and his head spin, was how he felt.

There was a knock on the door. Sherlock didn't respond. He knew who it was.

The door opened. 'Sherlock.'

'Thank you, Mycroft.'

'For what?'

'You know what, Mycroft. There's no-one here, you don't need to feign innocence.'

'Anybody who hurts John, hurts you. Anybody who hurts you, hurts me. We are family, Sherlock, though we rarely act like it.'

The elder Holmes set something down on a small table at back of the room and closed the door behind him. _That was too close. _

**5:30am **

Since three, Sherlock had only left John's side once, to get himself a coffee. He never bothered to look at what Mycroft had deposited on the table, instead he walked straight past it and out into the softly lit corridor.

He glanced down at his watch: 5:31. He tried his best to stifle a yawn, to no avail. When he opened his eyes post-yawn, he noticed John's eyes flutter open.

'_Sherlock.' _

'John, it's alright, I'm here.'

'I missed you, Sherlock.' John mumbled through a sleepy concoction of morphine and the like.

'I missed you too, John. I was so worried.'

'You were right.'

'That doesn't matter.' Sherlock stood up and pressed a kiss to John's forehead. 'You're alright.'

John's eyes closed again and he fell back into a comfortable sleep. Sherlock sighed in contentment. The first time in days. The first time since he found out what John had to do.

#####

'Just a final check-up, Doctor Watson and then you're free to go.' A young nurse was fussing over John, annoying Sherlock greatly. 'Mr Holmes, is that package on the back table yours?'

'My brother dropped it off yesterday morning.'

'Right, okay.' The nurse wrote something down on John's chart. 'Okay, Dr Watson, you're good to go. I'll leave you and Mr Holmes to sort your stuff out. Make your way to the the desk outside and sign a few forms when you're done.'

'Thank you, Lucy.' John Smiled as he tried to pull his jacket on.

'Ouch. Sherlock? Put my jacket on will you? Bastard Shoulder.'

'Now you're matching.' Sherlock commented sadly as he helped slide John's jacket on.

'What did Mycroft leave?'

'Don't know.' Sherlock answered, immediately heading towards the package. It was wrapped in that useless tissue paper that fancy shops use around Christmas time. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Resting delicately on top was a card, neatly dressed to John.

'It's for you. Here.' He tossed it over to John. He didn't catch it.

Sherlock rolled his eyes again. He handed the card over to John and bent down gracefully to pick up the wrapped package.

'This is from Mycroft? John asked, sliding his finger underneath the sealed part of the envelope.

'Yes. He came to see you just after you were admitted.'

'Nice of him.' The doctor opened the card, smiling a little as he read it.

'What does it say?'

'Feel better.'

'Is that it?'

'What did you expect, War and Peace?'

'No but- just open the package.'

Sherlock already knew what it was, he knew straight away. He liked it. The thought of Mycroft doing something like this for John was pleasing. It made him feel safe.

John tore off the paper (as delicately as he could- it was from Mycroft after all) and looked inside. Neatly resting inside between sheaths of pale wrapping was a navy jumper. The recipient pulled it out from it's bed of packaging and held it up. It _was_ lovely, much better than that egregious tangerine number. Even Sherlock had to admit that Mycroft had good taste. And a large wallet. John ran his fingers across the wool, taking in it's soft warmth.

'He knows you, John. This is the most personal present he could give you.' Sherlock smiled, noticing what could be described by _normal _people as a 'lump in his throat'. He was touched. The present wasn't even for him and he was touched. It wasn't just meant as a gift to John, it was a message to Sherlock. He thought back to what Mycroft had said last night:

_'We are family, Sherlock.' _


	12. Chalk Outline

**A/N: A reviewer made me notice that I'd slipped out of writing one-shots- easy to get carried away because I'm enjoying myself! Anyway, enjoy! **

A phone beeped at five-thirty am, waking John up just as the first rays of sunlight slid in through the gap in Sherlock's curtains, bathing the room in gentle light.

'Mmmf, Sherlock.' John mumbled, his face pressed into the pillow.

Sherlock turned away from John and reached out a long, pale arm to retrieve his phone. It took him three attempts to enter his password as he was fuzzy-eyed and the screen was too bright.

'It's Lestrade. Case. 28 Arden Place.'

John groaned, but tossed back the covers and rolled himself out of the warmth of their shared bed. He'd slept well last night- peacefully. No demons of the past penetrated his mind, no bloody images fogged his vision. It was down to Sherlock. It wasIt was his desiscion to share his bed. They hadn't _done _ anything, mind. No, they weren't ready for anything like that. They just slept, slipped in next to eachother and relished in eachother's comfort. John had slid up close to Sherlock, resting his tired head on his companion's warm chest. It was odd, John never expected Sherlock to be as warm as he was. He knew it was unfair to think of him as a cold person, but he was. Not to John though, never to John.

Sherlock watched John leave their bed and yank off his pyjama t-shirt. In lieu of his sleepwear he pulled on the navy jumper that Mycroft has bought him and a pair of jeans. Sherlock liked the way that John dressed, it was homely and comorting. John reminded Sherlock of baking. Warm bread and cakes. It was nice.

#####

The cab pulled up outside a three story house in a very expensive location in south London, all white houses and fences. Sherlock watched in disgust as over-dressed women walked their tiny dogs and babbled meaninglessly to someone on the other end of a phone.

He noted Detective Inspector Lestrade was also on the phone, and surpressed the childish image of him walking a chihuaha. Lestrade nodded in acknowledgement as the two men left the taxi, holding up a finger which said _one minute. _

Sherlock rubbed his hands together, rocking back and forth on his feet.

'Ah, I've been wanting a case for ages, John! Just what I needed.' By this time, Lestrade had finished his conversation. 'What've we got? Serial killer? _Serial suicides _again? Oooh I loved that case, very interesting.'

'Just your standard murder, Sherlock.'

The detective sighed in disappointment, adjusting his scarf.

'Except, Sherlock, we don't have a body.'

Sherlock looked up, just a little interested. 'No body?' he asked, a small smirk playing on his lips.

'Yep.' Lestrade nodded grimly. 'Come and take a look.'

Sherlock and John nodded in unison, the former following Lestrade into the taped-off house and the latter following behind. John was impressed with the house, it was a little ostentacious, but it was impressive none the less. The hall was monchrome, spotless white walls and thick black carpet. The walls were decorated with Picasso, housed in expensive looking black frames.

The pair were led to the first floor, where John was less impressive. For such a nice looking house it's rooms were tiny. He guessed it was more of a show home rather than a comfort home.

'Here we are.'

John stared blankly while Sherlock strode across the room and bent down in the corner, running his finger across the floor.

'Chalk.'

'Hmm?' John headed in the working detective's direction.

'Instead of a body, we have a chalk outline.'

'If you don't mind me asking, how do you know there even is a body?'

Lestrade was the last to join Sherlock. 'We had a call, a confession. We traced the call but it was from the phone on the windowsill.' He gestured to a white iPhone. 'We are none the wiser.'

'Well then Doctor Watson, let's get to work!'


	13. The Doctor & The Detective

The Doctor & The Detective

Mycroft sat at his desk, facing his brother's stony face and John Watson's mask of indifference.

'Mr Asan and the terrorist cell which he was involved with has been taken down, thanks to you. I would like to thank you, Doctor Watson.'

'What did he want with Moriarty?' Sherlock asked, frowning slightly.

Mycroft sighed. 'Let me explain from the beginning: It wasn't Asan's original plan to kidnap John, that was an afterthought. He wanted to make this weapons deal with another cell who are working out of the Kremlin.'

'Where they planning on using this weapon here in London?'

'It's possible, probable even, but now we will never know, thank goodness. When John went to meet Asan posing as Alexander Petrovik's handler, he knew something wasn't right. John was being watched by Asan's men, they did a background check. Asan made a quick decision. He misunderstood your involvement with Moriarty.'

'That bastard still manages to hurt people.' Sherlock said quietly, looking a John pointedly.

'Quite.'

#####

'Sherlock, come and sit down.'

Sherlock was pacing the round the flat, hands interlocked behind his back. He was wearing his pyjama's and a new black robe. John streched languidly, his eyelids feeling heavy. He picked up his book.

'I can't work out, John, why Asan's cell would be want Moriarty's guts for garters.' He sighed heavily, his strides getting quicker.

'Moriarty killed somebody Mr Asan was close to, he told me.' John mumbled through a yawn.

'But why?'

'Why do you think, Sherlock? He was asked to do it. Someone had a problem, they went to him. He gets a kick from other people's dirty work.'

'It just seems too petty, too easy.'

'Sherlock, Moriarty's dead, Mr Asan is been taken down and we will never locate the person who's favour Moriarty did. You'll have to cope with not knowing for once.'

'Ugh. Not knowing is boring.'

'Deal with it, Sherlock. Come and sit down.'

Sherlock relucantly complied, throwing himself down on the sofa haughtily, almost landing on John. The latter was tired, comfort was taking over as Sherlock slid closer to him, resting his head on John's jumpered shoulder.

'Can you not do anymore of Mycroft's work please, John. It makes me rather worried.'

John put down his book, a dog-eared copy of 'As You Like It' that he'd found in the bookshelf.

'I bit off more than I could chew, Sherlock. You were right as always. But if Mycroft needs me to help, I will. It's what I do. It's in my blood. You put yourself in danger everyday when you're on one of your cases, this is the same. We have to accept it.'

John lifted his arm and wrapped it around Sherlock, pulling him into his chest. He ran his fingers through the detectives dark curls and listened to his breathing. They stayed where they were, unmoving, finding comfort in eachother's closeness, until the doctor and the detective fell asleep.


	14. In Mortis

_In Mortis_

Sherlock got the call at ten to midnight. He'd stared unblinkingly at the wall whilst Mycroft explained what had happened down the phone. He didn't take the phone from his ear when he his brother had hung up.

John had asked was wrong. Sherlock explained with cold detachment. John had sat down on the sofa and put his head in his hands.

Sherlock didn't move, he didn't say anything more than he had to. He stood there, feet fixed to the floor, eyes dry.

It didn't hurt.

#####

'Lady Elspeth Holmes was a loving woman. A mother, a wife and a friend. It is a cruel twist of fate that she should be taken from us before we were ready. Her son's, Mycroft and Sherlock, without a mother, and her husband, Lord Victor Holmes, without a wife...'

John looked at Sherlock, who wasn't looking at the Vicar. He turned his attention to Mycroft, who was staring at the stained glass window with professional solemness.

_'...respected and loved woman...'_

John had never known Sherlock and his brother so still, so silent. He didn't know how either of them felt, and that left him helpless. He was worried that if he tried to console Sherlock, he would get offended and try to push John away, or that he would leave him to his own devices and would make Sherlock feel even worse.

_'...talented singer and pianist, impressing almost...'_

Sherlock felt as though his insides had frozen over. His feelings were foggy and difficult to understand. He couldn't remember how he felt about his mother.

_...'never had much like with the Violin! That's where...'_

He thought back to the times at Lordswood House, the place where he grew up. He tried to find the memories that he'd documented as unimportant, the ones that were clogging up mind space.

_'...Sherlock picks up her slack...' Laughter._

A young woman, dark hair pinned back into a chignon, pulling a straw boater on to a mass of unruly curls.

_'...both her sons, who she was immensely...'_

A woman with pale skin and red, pinched lips, gripping a pale, chubby hand with just enough force to make him follow.

_'...proud of...'_

Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to bring his mind into focus The pale, chubby hand was Mycroft. Sherlock remembered Mycroft's reluctance to start secondary school. Vaguely. He would've been young though, only four. He remembered though, he remembered.

'_...I would like for us to say our final prayer...'_

Bowed heads. Mourning silence. Words that Sherlock dismissed as quickly as they'd been said.

'...Amen.'

#####

John set a Museum of National History mug down in front of Sherlock and waited for the kettle to boil. He watched him, pale, carved face set in a stony vagueness, steely eyes fixed on an invisible point; he was blinking slowly. The muscles in his long, slender neck tensed occasionally. His palms and fingers were touching, pressed to his mouth and resting on bony elbows.

John poured the boiled water into the teapot set the kettle back down on the base, simultaneously prodding the teabags around in the water. He watched the brown tea leave the bag and disperse in the water and put the lid on.

Sherlock made no attempt to move for the freshly poured cup of tea, so John sat down on the adjacent chair and mirrored Sherlock's position.

'It was her brother.' Sherlock's eyes flicked onto John.

'Excuse me?'

'The case. With the chalk outline. It was her brother.'

'Right.'

'He felt remorse but did not want to be held accountable. He was ill. Schizophrenia. Diagnosed last year. He got angry at her for not understanding, so he strangled her with his tie. He carted the body off to a scrap yard and dumped it, leaving the chalk outline and the phone call so there was a chance that they could find him. '

'When did you work this out?'

'About a day after we got the call.' Sherlock answered curtly, removing his focus from John and back onto the invisible point.

'I texted Lestrade this morning. The brother's in custody. I forgot to tell you with -' he paused, swallowing. 'what's happened.'

'Right, yeah, that's fine.'

John pulled the teapot towards him with one hand, tilting back on his chair and reaching for a mug with the other. He watched the tea pour intently.

'Sherlock. Can you please talk to me?'

'I was talking to you, John.'

John pursed his lips. 'You know what I mean, Sherlock. You haven't uttered a syllable about it since you told me.'

'There is nothing to say.'

'There is _a lot_ to say.'

The two men stared at each other, willing the other to say something- anything. John wished that Sherlock would tell him how he felt. Sherlock wished John would shut up and not ask again.

'Sherlock'

'She was my mother. She's now dead. That's all there is to it.'

'No, Sherlock, that's not all there is to it. I can help you, however you're feeling I can help you. Just let me.'

'I don't think you can, John. You came from a loving home. You'd feel what normal people would feel if they lost a parent. Grief. Anger. Despair.' He paused, corners of his mouth tilting upwards ever so slightly. '_Something. _Something that reminds you that you're still alive.'

'Sherlock. Did you love your mother? Honestly, seriously, no snide remarks. The truth.'

The steely eyed man turned his face fully towards John. 'She was my mother, John. Of course I did.'

John sighed in relief, glad of Sherlock's admission.

'She treated Mycroft and I like trophies, gleaming gold reminders of how good _she _is. She smothered us. She kept us hidden away, but she didn't treat us well.' Another pause. 'But she didn't treat us badly, either. She would buy us nice things, pick us up when we'd fallen over and scraped our knees, read us bedtime stories, kiss us good night. But it never felt _right. _It never felt how it should have.' Sherlock picked up the tea, now lukewarm, and took a sip. He shut his eyes, suddenly feeling dizzy; a strange feeling washed over him. Something unfamiliar.

When he opened his eyes he was curled up on the sofa, leaning against John with wet eyes. His fingers grasping the wool of the Doctor's grey jumper as if it was the only thing keeping him there.


	15. For John

For John

John sat at the kitchen table of 221B Baker Street, surrounded by all the people, minus his sister Harry, whom he cared about. Sherlock, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson (armed with a white box tied with red ribbon), Molly and Greg Lestrade.

He turned a charming shade of pink when the group had sung a very off-key Happy Birthday, and insisted that everyone one should 'stop, please, you are terrible.'

He was feeling content; a warm, sleepy feeling passing over him as he moved to his armchair. Everyone was laughing, even Mycroft's face bore a softened expresion, and John wondered how long it would last before something went wrong.

'Present time!' Mrs. Hudson cooed, handing over a neatly wrapped present to the birthday boy.

John didn't particularly care about presents, but tried to look enthusiastic as he tore the gift wrap from Mrs. Hudson's gift. It was a charming cashmire scarf of an inky midnight blue.

'It's lovely, Mrs Hudson, thank you.'

John repeated the charade for every present that followed: A pair of leather gloves from Mycroft; a gift certificate for the fancy wine place down the road from Lestrade, a subscription for John's favourite magazine from Molly and nothing from Sherlock. When the last present was unwrapped, Sherlock caught John's eye and he understand. He felt bad for thinking it it, but he couldn't wait for the everyone else to leave.

It wasn't until around eleven when the last hand was shook and the last cheek kissed. The residents of 221B could finally relax.

Sherlock looked over at John from his armchair, his grey eyes glistening.

'I hope they don't think I didn't get you anything.'

'They'll understand.'

Sherlock nodded. 'Wait here.' He got up from his seat and left the living room. When he came back he was holding a large cream envelope.

'Here.'

The doctor took the envelope out of Sherlock's hand, and used calloused fingers to trace where his name had been delicately scribed in fountain pen. He pulled gently at the seal, sliding out a thick sheath of paper. Except for two at the top, there were no words on the paper. In lieu of letters were notes, drawn delicately upon a black stave. The two words at the top read: '_For John' _

'_Sherlock.'_ John breathed, wondering how it was possible to understood so much from what he didn't understand. He didn't know how this piece of music would sound, which notes where which, what all the lines meant, but he that it was for him. _For John. _

John moved his eyes from the music to Sherlock, the warm glow of table lamp making him look _like home. _John wanted to reach out and touch Sherlock, to bring him to him, to never let him go. He was scared that if he didn't, this moment would leave, would never come back. The two were fixed in their positons, eyes never leaving the ones they were locked on to. Something passed between them, something delicate, something _real. _It wasn't love, oh no, it was so much more than that. To say it was love would be to lower it's worth. Sherlock wouldn't lower himself to that. John closed the gap between them, gently plaing the gift on the coffee table. He reached out a hand to Sherlock, fingers gripping the collar of his shirt. He brought him to him, other hand working it's way through dark tendrils of hair. He kissed him. Sherlock grasped on to the back of John's grey jumper, delicately cupping his face. He kissed him back. They were joined by a force neither one of them could begin to comprehend, something so strong, so unyielding that it had to be handled with great care. The two bodies pressed against eachother, sharing warmth, sharing _home. _They were home to eachother now, a comfort, a familiarity that both of them needed to survive. They were joined in a confusing union of bodies, hands and arms not really knowing where to go. It didn't matter. They were there. They were together.


	16. Snow and Red Noses

**A/N: Sorry about the lack of updates this past week: Studying Law and Politics takes up a lot of one's time! Short and sweet; enjoy!**

* * *

Snow and Red Noses

Snow was falling quietly outside. Sherlock watched silently as the white flakes tapped on the window, landing in gentle turrets on the ledge outside. He huffed, watching the traffic pile up along Baker Street whilst foolish commuters and shoppers slid around the slush which had been hidden by a fresh coat of white. It was two weeks until Christmas and Sherlock noted that everyone who had skated past 221B was wielding a Harrods bag. That or a pretentious briefcase.

'I think I hate snow.' Sherlock said matter-of-factly, moving away from the window.

John looked up from his copy of The Independent. 'You think you hate it? How can you think you hate it?'

'I can't make up my mind. It's whiteness tricks me'

'Have you been drinking?'

'Of course not, John.' Sherlock scoffed haughtily. 'You wouldn't understand.'

John was laughing by this point. 'No, please explain. I'm intrigued.'

'Well, it covers everything up, makes it blank. It's harder to read things when they're covered in blinding whiteness.'

'It's not all white though, is it?' John asked, sniggered.

Sherlock cocked his head towards John, scowling slightly. 'What?'

'Well, you know, some of it's yellow.' John started laughing childishly: a little too much for what he'd said; Sherlock wondered whether he had inhaled some of his chemicals and decided to roll his eyes and scoff again.

'Disgusting.' He muttered, strutting back to the window.

#####

John placed a plate of Mrs Hudson's Mince Pies on the kitchen table, eyeing them greedily.

'Watch out, Mycroft will be round in a minute. His cake alarm will be going off.' Sherlock said sharply, picking up a pie.

'Be nice.' John replied, pouring himself and Sherlock a cup of tea and sitting himself on the opposite side of the table.

'Not my fault he's an insufferable little-'

'Gentlemen.' Mycroft's voice sounded from the doorway of the living room, stopping Sherlock mid-sentence. He was flushed from the cold and had snow sitting in his copper hair; the infamous umbrella was being tapped on the floor impatiently, leaving tiny puddles of melted snow. John didn't know how anybody could look _that_ sophisticated covered in snow with a bright red nose.

'Ah, Mycroft, just as I anticipated.'

'I haven't come for cake, Sherlock, I've come for business.'

'No.' Sherlock barked, his hand instinctively reaching across the table to grab John's wrist. To protect him.

'Oh no, Sherlock, it's nothing like that.'

Sherlock sighed in response.

'It's much worse.'

The Young Holmes' head snapped up, making John flinch.

'What?'

'Daddy wants us home for Christmas.'


	17. Holmes from Home

**A/N: Wow guys sorry for slow updates, I've been so busy. This chapter kind of sucks but oh well. Next one should be better. **

* * *

Holmes from Home

Nothing in the world could stop Sherlock from being nervous. His body gave him away: sweaty palms; tapping fingers and increased heart beat. He didn't have to try to hide it, John was asleep, his head resting on Sherlock's bony shoulder. Sherlock's eyes flicked from his sleeping companion to the window, the view blurred and distorted through the steadily falling snow. He looked at the temperature gauze in the front of the car: -1 degrees. John hadn't brought a coat, even though Mrs Hudson had mithered him half to death about 'catching his death of cold.'

'Mr Holmes?' A soft, deep voice broke Sherlock's reverie.

'Mm?'

'We're here.'

#####

John Watson rubbed his eyes sleepily, mumbling incoherently about being woken up and being tired and cold and 'ugh Sherlock stop pestering me'. He didn't even register where the black car had pulled up.

'Well, John. Welcome to Lordswood Manor. Home to the Holmeses.'

'Jesus.' Was all John could manage. He actually had to turn his body just to take the whole thing in. It was glorious, immense in size and oozing riches and splendor: grey stone walls, a heavy mahogany door with a bronze handle, a glorious topiary display on the grass on either side and _oh my God. _Sherlock grew up here. _Here. _John looked above the doorway where there was an intricate stone carving depicting Romulus and Remus.

'It's a little pretentious, don't you think?' Sherlock drawled, taking John's hand.

'Master Holmes, Doctor Watson. Please, come in from the cold.' An old man with grey, wispy hair stood in the door way. He was well-dressed, clad in a smart black suit and white shirt.

'Dr Watson, may I offer you an introduction. I am Henry Cathcart; I have worked for the Holmeses for 60 years.'

'Wow, Hi, um, Dr John Watson, pleased to meet you.'

'Excellent, Master Holmes, Dr Watson, follow me.'

The two men followed Henry's lead, in through the grand door and into the hall. Impressive wasn't the word. The floor was a subtle white marble, flecked with silver and grey. The hall light reflected from it, giving it an iridescent quality. The walls were also white, but not a harsh, clinical white, it was more snowy. It was a white that made you feel wintery and comfortable. The staircase was breathtaking, also marble, it wound round itself, the white banister carved into intricate designs and patterns. At the end of the hall, to the left of the staircase was another mahogany door and above it, a beautiful wooden plaque, carved with two interlocking hands holding a sword. There was something written underneath, John thought it looked like Latin.

'It's our family coat of arms: "_Ipsa scientia potestas est". _It means "knowledge itself is power".'

'Why doesn't that surprise me?' John smiled, realising he and Sherlock were still holding hands and squeezing slightly.

'Appropriate, isn't it? The Holmes family has always loved knowledge. And power.' Mycroft sauntered in through the door belief the plaque, his usual smartly dressed self wearing a rather fetching burgundy waistcoat.

'Mycroft.' John and Sherlock muttered in unison, their hands letting go and falling to their sides.

'Father will be here in a moment, he's just in the wine cellar. Don't hold your breath, he'll only pick the cheap stuff.'

The three men turned around at the sound of another door clicking open to the left of them.

A gruff, hoarse voice: 'Boys?'


	18. Unlike Father unlike Son

**A/N: Sorry about the lack of updates _again. _I've been so busy over the Christmas period _and _I really had to think with this chapter! Anyway, hope all you readers had a wonderful Christmas and have a wonderful New Year! **_Lot's of love, P. x_

** Enjoy! **

* * *

Unlike Father unlike Son

'Boys?'

Sherlock stood speechless for a moment, not moving, blinking or even breathing. His eyes shot to Mycroft and then to John, silently willing either of them to say something first. Neither did.

'Father.' Sherlock said finally, pursing his lips.

'Sherlock, my boy. How are you?'

'Since you last saw me at her funeral and her remembrance? Fine on both occasions, since you didn't bother to speak to me on either."

'Sherlock.'

'Victor Holmes, Dr John Watson. You could've met him at the funeral if you had been bothered. If you need us, We'll be upstairs. Have Cathcart call us when dinner is ready. Mycroft.' He nodded at his brother, took John by the hand and dragged him upstairs without uttering another syllable.

When the two reached Sherlock's old bedroom, John turned on Sherlock.

'What was all that about' He asked, throwing his travel bag on to the bed.

'It was you meeting my father, John. Something wrong?'

'That's not usually how people greet their fathers.'

'I don't think my family constitutes as normal, John.'

'You never speak of him.'

'I don't need to. I have nothing to say about Victor Holmes. He is a money-grabbing monster who has little regard for anyone but himself. Need I continue?'

John rolled his eyes and unzipped his bag, pulling out the folded clothes and lying them on the bed. 'He obviously invited you here for a reason.' He commented, rolling a pair of grey socks into a ball.

'Yes.'

John didn't go any further. He went over to the window, where a leather ottoman was positioned beneath the sill. He put down his empty bag and leant on it with one knee, looking out of the window.

'It's beautiful.'

'Indeed.'

'Why did Mycroft take you all the into the centre of London just for a park?'

'Hm?' It took Sherlock a second to work out what John was talking about, 'Oh. We never stayed here very often, only during holidays and when my dad had time off work. We had another house right in the heart of Westminster. Much easier for a Member of Parliament to get to work.'

'Ah. You're lucky though, Sherlock. This is a lovely place to have grown up.'

'Yes, but it wasn't happy.'

#####

John reduced himself to staring at Mr Holmes from his seat at the dinner table: adjacent to John, facing a large framed re-print of _Liberty Leading The People _by Eugene Delacroix_. _He had stern face, cheeks flushed from the large glass of whisky he had been sipping at. His eyes were the same colour as Sherlock's, only colder and without the sparkle of excitement.

'So, Doctor Watson, Mycroft tells me you're a soldier.'

'_Were. _Afghanistan.'

'Ah.' Mr Holmes smiled slightly, tilting his glass toward John. 'Utmost respect for soldiers, me. Takes a lot of bravery..'

'Or stupidity.' John countered, looking pointedly at Mycroft. _Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity. _John thought he was being pretty brave or stupid by agreeing to even accompany Sherlock. Victor made him feel uncomfortable, he always caught his steely eyes on him and flicking away when he was noticed.

The table remained silent. It wasn't comfortable either, everybody was staring at each other but not wanting to be caught. It wasn't until the dinner plates were brought out that Sherlock finally spoke.

'So, Father, how are you enjoying lying to people and being paid for it?' He asked, eyeing the half a pheasant that had been set down on the table in front of him.

'Excuse me?' Victor answered, pursing his lips.

'Well you are a politician, I presumed that was what you did.'

'Don't be so ridiculous. What is it you do, anyway? Amateur detective work, like something out of a Victorian novel?' The eldest man scoffed, taking an angry bite out of julienned carrot.

'I'm a consulting detective, father!' Sherlock replied, a flush creeping on to his cheeks. 'I pick up the police's slack when they're incapable. Which is practically all the time.'

Victor shrugged dismissively. He turned back to John.

'Tell me, Doctor Watson, how somebody like you ended up solving cases with my son? What is he to you?'

John looked uncomfortable, he wasn't actually sure what the answer was. 'I'm his, um, friend and associate. I assist him on his cases, um, yeah.'

Mr Holmes raised one eyebrow, taking a large gulp of his drink. 'Ah. A friend. How did Sherlock get a friend? Did he pay you?' The old man laughed, but he was the only one. John shifted uncomfortably and Sherlock looked visibly hurt, pushing his potatoes around on his china plate. Mycroft cut his eyes at daddy, warning him not to push him.

John took breath. 'As a matter of fact, Mr Holmes, I wasn't paid. I was intrigued by your son's intellect and _uncanny _knowledge of both my military career and my relationship with my sister.' He finished quickly, nodding at Victor in finality and stabbing a carrot with his fork.

The old man stopped, his fork poised in mid-air, potato and all. His dead-pan expression twisted into a slow smile. 'You have a back bone, good.'

'He needs one to put up with my brother.' Mycroft smiled.

Sherlock half smiled before looking at John and nodding in thanks.

#

After the plates had been cleared and pudding delightfully served by Cathcart and a new maid by the name of Lucille, John stretched languidly, resting a hand on top of his full stomach.

'Mr Holmes, that was wonderful, compliments to the chef, or whatever you have, but I think I'm gonna hit the hay. Thanks again. Goodnight.' John pushed himself from underneath the heavy mahogany table and nodded his good night to Mycroft and Sherlock. Only the three Holmes men remained. Mycroft was the first to break the silence that was sitting heavy in the air.

'How have you been, father?'

Sherlock looked up from the patch of carpet he'd been staring at for the past ten minutes.

'Not too bad, Mycroft, not too bad. It's rather quiet without her, I can't decide whether I like the silence or not.' His voice was solemn, but Sherlock didn't think he sounded quite as sad as he should have been.

'Is that all?' he asked, a hint of interrogation to his deep voice.

'What do you mean?' the eldest man replied, bitterness spiking his reply.

'I mean is that all? Is that all you have to say? She was your wife, was she not?'

'Sherlock-'

'Leave it, Mycroft. What the hell are you talking about, Sherlock?'

'I'm saying you don't seem particularly upset about the death of your wife of almost fifty years.' Sherlock answered calmly, his eyes losing the warm glow they have when John is around and turning back into cold steel.

'Of course I'm upset, you idiot boy. She was my wife and I loved her very much.'

'And is that why you didn't even speak at her funeral? Is that why you didn't bother to speak to her two boys on the day they lost their mother?'

'How dare you imply that I did not love your mother!' Victor spat, standing up. His cheeks were reddening and his hand smacked the table with enough force to knock over his glass of scotch.

'Father, sit down! Sherlock, shut the bloody hell up!'

'Don't tell me what to do, Mycroft, I have the right to be angry when your blasted brother is spewing this.. this _vitriol_! I will not stand for it!'

'For all these years I'd thought it was mother who had made my life miserable, and now I've only just realised it was you! You made her unhappy, you made her life hell by sleeping with every woman that walked through the door! Your ruined her! You turned her into this shadow of a woman who's only choice was to smother her children because she had no-one else!'

Sherlock was standing too by this point, his face hot and flushed. Mycroft dropped his drink on the floor and was rushing to Sherlock before the latter even realised what was about to happen. Mycroft hadn't reacted quickly enough; Victor was on top of Sherlock on the flagged stone floor, his fist inches from his face.

'How dare you! _How dare you _make up such lies! _You _were the one who made her unhappy! You and your pompous little brother! How do you think she felt, having two little freaks as her sons. Two little creatures who thought they knew _everything.' _Victor laughed viciously, his eyes deep with malice. '

Wouldn't you be upset if you had a child like yourself? An ugly little child with no friends, no ability to even hold a conversation without insulting the other person! You've failed her even now! No friends, no job! Still don't understand simple human behaviours! Look at you, you're a disgrace! A disgrace!'

Mycroft's hands were on his the sleeves of this father's velvet jacket, pulling and tugging in futile desperation to get him off his brother. Sherlock lay still, breathing heavily with the weight of his father and his anger pressing down on him.  
'You are _dead _to me, you evil bastard of a man.' He spat, his cold eyes boring into his older counterparts. Mycroft tried with all his might to pull the old man off, but could not stop his fist meeting his younger brother's face. Mycroft succeeded after the second blow, heaving him from the thin man and shoving him into the dense leg of the dinner table.

He knelt down beside Sherlock, regardless of the blood stains he would almost definitely get on his best shirt.

'Sherlock, get up. Come on, buddy. Up you get.' The copper-haired man held out a hand for his brother and an arm out behind him as he heard his father move.

'Stay there. _Stay there._'

Sherlock grabbed hold of Mycroft's wrist and hauled himself up off the ground. He was dizzy and his vision was blurred. He steadied himself by holding on to the table.

'Are you alright?' Mycroft asked, tilting Sherlock's chin up to get a better look at his face.

'I'm fine. _Fine. _Although I wasn't deserving.'

'No, you weren't. But you knew what would happen.'

'Yes. But I had to, I had to.' He grabbed on to his brother's sleeve and fell to his knees like he did was he was a young boy, salt mixing with iron as tears fell down his bloody cheeks. 'I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.' He muttered into his brother's shirt, feeling Mycroft's hand rest upon his hair.

The man breathed a shaky breath. 'Get my John.'


	19. Of Whisky and Truths

Of Whisky and Truths 

Mycroft called for Cathcart who called for John who came running down the marble staircase clad in merely his boxer shorts and a grey marl t-shirt.

'Sherlock? Sherlock?!' He entered the dining room like a bull in a china shop, knocking into a side table and narrowly avoiding a head-on collision with one of the heavy wooden chairs.

He knelt down at Sherlock's side which was Mycroft's cue to leave.

'John, I'll meet you in the study when you're finished.' He bent down and muttered in John's ear before leaving. Mycroft was met with quizzical eyes.

'I will explain everything then.'

John nodded his assent and turned his attention back to his friend, who was sitting on the floor like some fallen alabaster angel, back leaning against a thick table leg.

'What happened, Sherlock?' John asked gently, running a calloused thumb across Sherlock's undamaged cheek. The deep red of the blood was startling against the detective's porcelain skin.

'I think I might have pissed him off a little.' Sherlock replied, his usual baritone voice cracking slightly as he spoke.

John leant towards Sherlock and pulled his head into his chest. 'You don't need to explain anything to me, okay? I just want you to feel better. Let's get you up to bed, Sherlock, come on.'

John straightened himself out and took hold of Sherlock's shaking hand, heaving him up from the cold stone floor.

'Go on ahead, Sherlock. I'll pour you a drink.'

#####

John slipped in through the gap of Sherlock's bedroom door, trying to prevent a tray of precariously placed drinks from pouring onto the floor.

'John?' Sherlock lay in bed, his pale eyes staring unblinkingly at the snow which was falling silently onto the ground outside.

'Yes. I bought you a whisky, but then I remembered you think it tastes like toilet cleaner so I bought you a coffee. Is that okay?'

'I'll take both.' Sherlock replied smoothly, pushing himself up onto his elbows. 'Come here, my John.'

The doctor set the drinks tray down on the cold ottoman and slid into the bed next to Sherlock, who wrapped a long arm around his warm companion and pulled him in close.

'John.'

'Yes?'

'Do you understand my feelings for you?'

John was taken aback and for a moment struggled to form a coherent sentence. 'I, um, yes. No? No, not really.'

Sherlock turned to face John, whose golden eyes were boring into his own with such warmth and affection that the detective's breath caught in his throat. 'I need you, John. I need every part of you. You are more of me than I am and I could never be without you, do you understand?'

It was John's breath's turn to catch. His words choked him before spilling out in a babble of emotion. 'Yes, Sherlock, I understand, I do. I need- I need you too, I do, I need you, you fixed me, Sherlock, you fixed me. I owe you- I owe you so much.' He placed a hand on Sherlock's still bloody cheek. 'You didn't think to clean yourself up?' He asked, kissing the spot just above where Victor's fist had cut.

Sherlock took the hand away and held it with his own. 'No, you're my doctor, remember?'

'Of course, let me take a look.' Doctor Watson unwrapped himself from Sherlock and hopped from the bed to flick on the light. The room was cast is harsh, unnatural brightness which made both men's eyes hurt. After crawling back into bed, John took Sherlock's face in his hand, his brows knitted in concentration.

'Doesn't look too bad, you won't need stitches. I better go and get a flannel, it needs cleaning. Does Cathcart have a first aid kit, you reckon?'

'Most likely. There's a whole reserve of various potions and medicines in a cupboard. It's downstairs in the room next to the kitchen. Ask Lucille, she'll know.'

'Right. Good.' John removed himself from the bed and crept out of the room.

_Don't forget Mycroft, for God's sake do not forget- _

'Ah, Mycroft! I was just on my way to see you. Happen to know where the first aid cabinet is? I have a bit of clearing up to do.'

Mycroft had appeared quietly at the bottom of stairs, remaining unnoticed by John until he reached the last few steps. He smiled too sweetly.

'Doctor Watson, indeed. This way. Has our meeting slipped your mind already?' John looked at Mycroft, he _had_ forgotten, within the space of around ten minutes, but he wasn't willing to admit that to Sherlock's brother. He looked worn. His eyes were heavy and dark and his face was paler than usual.

'Yes, well I was -' John shifted uncomfortably. 'Well, I was _going _to, just not yet. I needed to tend to your brother. We're lucky he doesn't need stitches.'

'Well in that case, Sherlock can wait. Follow me to my old study, John. I'll explain what happened. You know full well my brother won't.'

'Proud git.'

Mycroft almost smiled. 'Indeed.'

#

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his old bed. There were too many memories in this room to sleep peacefully- not without John anyway.

_Where is John? My John. He's been gone for too long now. Maybe he's struggling to find what he needs. _Sherlock shifted again, tugging at the sheets which were tucked beneath the mattress on the opposite side to him to keep it neat. They shouldn't have been. They should've have been messily undone when a certain doctor had 'hit the hay', not when Sherlock himself had yanked them out hazily on one side to throw himself in. They should have bared his scent and his warmth. But they didn't.

Sherlock hadn't so much as laid a hand on this bed in years. Sixteen. Those years had seen him spiral into almost-insanity, to almost lose his mind, to almost lose himself. They'd also given him John. _His _John. Sherlock had never needed anything, well, not in years and not like this. It was an insatiable hunger- a pain which had an specific and exact cure and refused to cease and subside without it. John was that cure. John was what Sherlock needed.

John Watson: with all his jumpers and toast and tea and crinkled newspapers and sandy hair. John Watson with his readiness to follow Sherlock wherever he went, right into the face of danger, his adventurer. It filled Sherlock simultaneously with such strength and weakness that he could barely breathe. It made him more vulnerable- his enemies knew exactly where to attack, but it gave him something to fight for, something to be _good _for. Sherlock knew, and knew very well, that this was a bit not good.

_#####_

'Drink?' Mycroft stood with his back to John, facing an oak sideboard laden with a decanter of expensive scotch and too many cut-glass tumblers.

'Please.' John answered, pressing his short fingers into his temples. 'Mycroft? Can we make this quick, please? I'm exhausted and your brother needs sorting out. You know he'll have a pout on in the morning if I'm not at his beck and call.'

Mycroft didn't answer. He poured two large glasses of amber liquid into a tumbler and set it in front of John. The latter noticed tumbler-sized rings covering the thick wooden desk- a drink too many.

'I expect you'll want to know what happened, John. I'll explain.'

'You can skip the part about Sherlock getting pummeled, I think I know that part of the story.'

'Father loved Sherlock, he loved him very much. His magnum opus, if you will. Tall, handsome, intelligent beyond belief.' The elder Holmes paused, taking a tiny sip of his drink and screwing up his face slightly at the taste. 'But Sherlock rejected him. _Always_ rejected him. He knew all along what was happening, he worked out straight away that father was having affairs, the bright young spark that he is. Father couldn't stand his dejection. He yearned for Sherlock's approval, always. He strove to impress him.'

John's brow furrowed gently in light confusion.

'Seems odd, doesn't it?' Mycroft commented in response to John's expression. 'That a grown man should seek approval from his son. His _youngest _son at that. He had a right to, though. Sherlock was- _is –_impressive. Anybody who has a working brain can see that. Who wouldn't want his approval?'

The corners of the doctor's mouth pulled up a little and he nodded his agreement.

Mycroft continued. 'Sherlock said some things earlier, all of which were true, but that pushed dear father over the edge. That was the ultimate rejection: Sherlock acknowledging his father's wrong-doings after knowing from the beginning. Not pretending anymore. That is what my father couldn't bare- the drop of a facade. He meant none of what he said- he told Sherlock that he was a disgrace, a freak. He didn't mean that, he feels quite the opposite.' Mycroft took another drink. 'But that makes him akin to a sentimental old fool and he can't have that. Another front put up against us.'

'It hurt his pride.' It wasn't a question.

'And he lashed out.'

The younger man nodded in sympathetic understanding. 'I better go, he'll moan otherwise.' John tossed his drink back in one fluid motion and stood up from the desk. He held out a calloused hand to the Holmes brother.

'Good night, Mycroft.'

Mycroft took a firm grip of the hand that was offered to him. 'Good night, John.'

* * *

**A/N: I've decided I'm going to update every Wednesday (hopefully) because I need a schedule and a deadline. I also need to stop making mistakes in my final drafts because I assume it will be very annoying for you readers. Maybe I need a beta... **

**Anyway, hope you're enjoying... **


	20. Union

Union

'John, I-'

'It's fine, Sherlock.'

'No, John list-'

'Sherlock.' John was leaning back against the kitchen table, one hand resting palm down on the top for support and the other grasping a rapidly cooling mug of Earl Grey.

'John, would you just listen?' The other man was perched on the edge of the sofa with his legs folded beneath him, a crumpled copy of yesterday's Daily Mail lying forgotten underneath his weight. John half-held his hands up in mock surrender, one hand still clutching his mug.

'I want to thank you, John, for last week. The way you handled the situation was...' He paused, scouring his vast brain for the appropriate word. 'Impressive. It really was.'

John focused his full attention on Sherlock. 'I was an army doctor, Sherlock. I think I can handle a bloody face and a bruised ego.'

'My ego was not-' Sherlock began, but he was interrupted.

'I was joking, Sherlock. You know, a joke? Ha ha?'

'Very funny, John.' The seated man scowled, refusing to smirk.

'Sherlock?'

'Mm?' He tilted his body weight to the left and pulled the newspaper from beneath him. 'Ah.'

'Are you sure you're- you're alright?'

'Of course, John.' Sherlock answered gently, lifting himself elegantly from the sofa.

'It's just- you seem a bit...' John bit his lip. 'Affected by what happened.'

The taller man was now standing in front of John, his face breaking into a gentle smile. He lifted two pale hands to the shorter man's cheeks as if to reassure him. 'I'm fine.'

#####

It was getting late. The small, metallic alarm clock clicked soothingly on Sherlock's bedside table as a slither of moonlight cast a thin line through a gap in the curtains. The Doctor and The Detective lay close; atop the covers, bodies touching. They didn't speak. They just lay, their breathing patterns falling in to sync as they _listened. _They were a comfort to each other- a balm to soothe whatever pain or worry constricted their bodies.

The Army Doctor closed his eyes, easing his mind away from thoughts of his companion's father or their cases or whether Mycroft had installed CCTV cameras in the bedrooms.

The Detective sighed contentedly, noticing the steady, synchronised rhythms of both breath and heartbeat and trying not to worry about whether his damned brother had installed CCTV cameras in the bedrooms.

He turned over so that his face was in line with John's and kissed his forehead. He slid thin fingers between tufts of sandy hair and pulled gently, nuzzling a porcelain face into his doctor's warm neck. John pulled away, taking the other man's face between his calloused hands. He brushed his lips upon Sherlock's softly, dragging a thumb across the light pink flesh. Sherlock thought John tasted pleasant: like jam and sweet tea and biscuits.

'John...'

John didn't acknowledge his name. He pulled Sherlock toward him, quickly sliding a hand down his back and bringing the thin man's body into his so that it could mould against his own. One hand remained on the small of Sherlock's back and the other ran fingers through dark, tangled curls. When their mouths met again it was feverish - any gentleness forgotten in the hunger of the moment. They sighed against each other's mouths, their bodies fitting together like a completed jigsaw puzzle. Both knew what would happen, they didn't care. Whatever consequences it would have tomorrow, the day after or whenever were immaterial- right now it felt natural. The two men felt brave, untouchable. Whatever may happen afterwards was inconsequential. Nothing, _nothing_ would ever take away the perfection and _rightness _of this moment.

* * *

**A/N: Wow, 20 chapters! I didn't think I'd be able to manage 5! I thought I'd make this one short and sweet and say a big thank you to those who have been reviewing since Chapter 1! THANK YOU! I feel like I should buy you cupcakes or something like that! Or at least I wish I could draw so you'd have some art to go with it but I am dreadful. Anyway, I should stop babbling. Thank you.**

_NB: I know I said I'd update on Wednesday's but this was finished and I know I won't be at a computer tomorrow. _


	21. Epilogue: Two Thrown Together

Epilogue: Two Thrown Together

John Watson was tired. He sat slouched over the kitchen table, screwing his face up as he sipped tea that had been sitting for ten minutes too long. It was still early morning, the street lights reflected orange in the puddles from last night's rain. The lone doctor yawned, pushing himself out from beneath the table and pouring the remainder of his tea down the sink. He pressed his fingers to his temples and sighed, feeling his head begin to throb.

'Are you alright?' A smooth baritone voice sounded from behind John, startling him.

'Yes. Yes. No.' John took a heady breath and leaned against the work top, surrendering to exhaustion.

'Talk to me, John.' Sherlock said gently, moving shadow-like towards his partner.

John didn't know, if he was truly honest with himself. Last night with Sherlock was beautiful - _when it was happening. _The thoughts going through his head were ones he had anticipated.

'I don't know, Sherlock. I don't.'

'Are you happy, John?'

'What? I- Yes.'

'Then isn't that all that matters? I presume that is how this type of thing works.' Sherlock smiled slightly and hopped onto the table with the elegance of a feline.

John's brows knitted. 'What type of thing?'

Despite the other man's confusion, Sherlock remained unperturbed. 'A relationship, John.'

'A rel-'

'Yes, John, a relationship.'

'I- well, Sherlock, I-'

'Let me ask you again: John?'

'Yes.'

'Are you _happy?' _

'Yes. Yes I am'

'Then so am I. You mean more to me than you will ever see, and more than I can ever show you. Can you accept that?'

'Sherlock-'

The tall man slid off the table top and assumed his position in front of John. 'Can you accept that, John?'

John looked at his detective for a long moment, considering every perfect angle of his face, the porcelain of his cheeks and neck, the way the dark tendrils of his hair juxtaposed the white of his soft skin. He thought about the way Sherlock felt, his touch. He looked at his chest, the place where his heart belongs, the heart which people say he didn't have. They were so wrong, _so _wrong. Sherlock's heart was biggest because it was new, because it was filled with something so strong it could not be ignored. It was filled with John, _his wonderful John._ John in all his compassion, in his tangerine, navy, grey, Christmassy jumpers. John with his sandy hair and pale eyes, his warmth, his taste of jam and sweet tea and biscuits. There was nothing, _nothing _about John that Sherlock didn't want to be familiar with. He wanted to tune himself to John, to share in John's self. There wasn't a part of John that Sherlock didn't need.

John reached out a hand to stroke Sherlock's cool cheek. 'Yes.'

'Can you accept _me_?'

John looked at the other man again. 'Yes. Yes I can, Sherlock. You are me and I am you. Let me have _all _of you. Let me have_ you_.'

Sherlock laughed warmly, sliding a robed arm around John's waist. 'You _are _me, John. You have me, all of me, John Hamish Watson, and I love you.'

John smiled like a child on Christmas day, cheeks flushing, hands shaking.

'I love you, too.'

The shorter man went onto his tip-toes and kissed his partner, a kiss which told him that everything he had was him. Sherlock Holmes. The man smiled into John's kiss, unable to comprehend the joy that he felt, the warmth that filled his usually cold, solid body. That filled his heart. John filled him, John was a part of him. His mind rested on meaningless love songs and sonnets and-

_Upon what instrument are we two spanned?  
And what musician holds us in his hand?__  
_  
There was nothing else now, the men belonged to one another, they could share each other. They were, finally, The Doctor and The Detective.

* * *

**A/N: And there we go, finished! If I carry on writing I feel like it will become too forced and become less enjoyable. Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed, it's been lovely to just write what I want, so thank you. **

The title is reference to 'Between Us Now' By Thomas Hardy:  
_Between us now and here - _  
_ Two thrown together_

And the two lines near the end are from a lovely poem called Love Song by Rilke.


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